Empty
by atrum infractus
Summary: He doesn't hear his brother open up the fridge to grab just one more beer, trying to drown his memory but then again, no one else does either.
1. Every Day

**Empty  
****by atrum infractus

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**

Every day, he watches the shadows dance across his wall untill the nurses come in. They don't always talk to him, and he doesn't like them much. He's not sure if it's just the nurses or how much he wants to go home, but he doesn't really care anymore.

Every day, he wonders where they are- why they haven't come to take him home. Because it's been a few months since they went home, and he's pretty sure that they should have come back by now. Whenever he gets the chance to point out their picture to a passerby, he tells them the same thing he tells himself every day; that they have a good reason, that they will be back soon. He's so caught up in explaining about the photographs, he rarely notices the spark of pity in his guest's eye.

Every day, he sees an older man with reddish hair that he recognizes, sometimes accompanied by a slender woman with light hair. He recognizes both of these people, and he tries talk to them- he can't quite remember their names, but he _knows_ them- but they only wave back at him, their smiles tainted with sadness he doesn't want to see. He hears them talk to his doctor, then they leave. Sometimes he wonders why they don't talk to him, but he figures they're just busy, just like his family.

Every day, he wonders what happened to him. He thinks it must have been pretty bad, because his brother never even came to visit him. He usually gets a little sad when he thinks about this, but he's sure that's okay, because a lot of people around him are crying. Maybe they're sad too, but he wouldn't know the difference anymore.

Every day, he asks a nurse if he could have some chalk. They usually ask why, and it makes him confused. He doesn't know why he wants the chalk, he just knows that does. They act disgusted most of the time- like it's really their job to go buy chalk!- but occasionally there's a nice nurse on duty who brings him chalk every time she comes. He likes how the chalk feels in his hands, the warmth that he feels in his fingertips- he even likes the itching feeling that he's supposed to be writing something, but he can't figure out what that is yet. Of course, he likes her, too.

Every day, he doesn't see the elderly man he calls his father hessitate outside the door to his room, wondering if he should go in. He never sees him wipe away a few tears from his eyes before attempting to enter, just to rush away. He has never witnessed his father's weakness, and if he knew about the failed visits, he probably wouldn't want to anyway. But he does miss his father a lot.

Every day, he doesn't hear the phone ring, or hear his father answer it in his house. He doesn't hear his brother asking if he's made any improvements, or his father answering that he's been too busy to check. He doesn't hear the fights they've been having lately, usually about him. He doesn't hear his brother open up the fridge to grab just one more beer, trying to drown out his memory- but then again, no one else does either.

Every day, he thinks he's alone, but he doesn't know there's still a hole in the world he left behind, just waiting to be filled.

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	2. Alchemy

There he is.

Again, he's reaching for that bottomless beer that he'll be sipping all night. He usually isn't too fond of beer. He preferred wine, or something a bit more hard- but drinking gave him something to do- a way to forget.

_Forget what?_

He'd like to forget about those notebooks on the floor, pretend they never exsisted- that he'll never have to open them and see his youngest's handwriting scrawling across the pages. He'll never understand what he was writing about- and he'll certainly never give a damn the way Charlie did...

He sighs, leaning back into his chair. He closes his eyes, wondering how all the years had slipped by so fast. Back when this was Margaret's domain- when it would have been scandalous to allow the top of the TV be covered with an inch of dust, like it is now. Back when the glowing light under the door to the garage wouldn't flicker off untill some ungodly hour and cereal bowls rested on the table all day without being cleaned.

"Dad?"

_Dammit._ Last time he checked, working late meant no evening visit. "In here."

Don wanders into the living room; Alan marvels for a moment at how after six months of occasional visits had made his eldest seem almost lost in the vast house. As if every time he steps into his childhood home, he's looking at for the first time again.

The next moment, he has looked back into his drink, forcing himself to focus on the amber liquid.

"Dad?" The couch springs creak as Don sat across from him- Alan blandly recalls the sound he had heard when Charlie had sprawled across the sofa with some sort of complicated math book. He used to lay there for hours...

"How's Charlie?"

"You know damn well that I don't know," Alan tells him, his tone harsh. His words have apparently have no impact on Don- no expression can be found in his eyes or anywhere else by that matter. "If you're so worried, go down there and see him yourself."

His eldest is silent- for a long time, an uncomfortable silence floods all of Alan's senses as he sips his beer.

"I'm sorry."

Alan's not. He's sure that he's never going to regret treating his son with such cold bitterness. Not when he was responsible for Charlie's condition- for the extra bill for a room in Ridgemont Mental Institution.

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_Thank you everyone for loving the one-shot- I'm going to try to tell a story worth reading, so please, feel free to drop in some ideas too. Thanks again!_


	3. Dirty Socks and Dirty Secrets

All he knows for sure is that some one is at the door.

He immagines they're probably wondering why the hell he's not answering it. He knows they all think he's just as crazy as Charlie these days, shoving all of them away. How can he help it? The only one he wanted to talk to was Charlie, but that's the one person in the whole world that he _can't_ talk to.

Why the hell should he let anyone else in?

Charlie had let him in.

Well, even geniuses are bound to make mistakes...

His visitor was growing more persistant. The pounding is growing louder, and that someone has started yelling. "Don! I know you're in there, Don, you can't hide forever!"

_Megan._

He quickly kicks his dirty socks beneath his sofa, brushes a month's worth of crumbs into his trash before shoving at least half a dozen beer bottles into an empty shelf in his fridge. He even bothers to run his hands through his hair and smooth out his shirt.

She is waiting at the door, not all too patiently, tapping her foot and giving him the most reproachful stare that he's ever seen on her face. But whatever. As long as this is just business, as long as she's out the door in five minutes...

She brushes past him, sitting down in his favorite chair- the one Charlie used to use when he came over. He follows her stare to below the couch- a corner of a dirty-striped sock sticking out on his floor...

She ignores the sock. However merciful this gesture is, there is nothing less persistant than her stare.

"I need to know what happened."


End file.
